Sit on my lap, dearie!
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Inspired by a delightful gif set on Tumblr by fairytaleasoldastime. Rumple invites Belle onto his lap for session of spinning straw into gold. Much to his surprise, his lady love agrees. Naughtiness ensues. Take that, Cora.


"Spinning straw into gold. Could you do that sort of magic before you became...as you are now, or was it after?"

Belle is polishing his silver, buffing it to a soft luster, and laying it out, piece by piece, on the long wooden table. Rumplestiltskin has been absorbed in his spinning since she entered the room. More often, he would seek to engage her, teasing about a book or a fabricated chore left undone, but today he is far away, unreachable. She is lonely and starved for conversation, overeager to secure his attention.

"Mmm? What's that?" he asks. She has intruded upon his reverie.

"I was wondering about your special talent. For spinning straw into gold. How did you come by it?"

His long fingers still and the wheel spins to a stop. Grief plays across his strange, shimmering face for a flicker of a moment, but then he rallies and motions her over, saying wickedly: "Sit on my lap, dearie. Come on, I'll teach you how it's done."

Belle considers this improbable request. "Sit on your lap...like a child?" She smiles, knowing he does not expect her acquiescence and rapidly clears the distance between them, standing close enough to touch. He is unnerved by her nearness, and Belle knows it.

_Gods, she delights in him._ Delights when he barks orders. Delights when he sputters nonsense in the evenings when they are alone, and she brings him a drink in her nightdress. Delights when he reads to her by the fire. Delights when he postures and flourishes. But, really, he should desist from teasing her needlessly. (Their _forever_ will be much more enjoyable when he ceases to hold her at arm's length.)

Belle boldly raises her skirts and settles herself upon his lap, spreading her legs to embrace the spinning wheel. She will teach him to watch his clever tongue

"All right then. How's it done?" She twists back to look at him, shifting on his lap, and realizes his hands are gripping the bench. Belle slides her hands over his and lifts them to the wheel.

"Go on. Show me. _Master._" She is laying it on a bit thick, but he finds numerous ways to vex her every day, and, really, he needs a strong dose of his own medicine.

After a long stretch of silence, he leans his creased, golden forehead against the back of her shoulder and whispers, "Think of your worst memory..."

"Well, there was yesterday, when you followed me from room to room for the sole purpose of pointing out where my housekeeping skills are lacking. And then, on Monday, there was your commentary on my talent for baking unrisen bread..."

"Belle..." he groans, and she can feel his nose pressed into her hair.

"Then there was what I believe to be a very deliberate attempt to startle me while I working in the garden..."

"Belle..."

"You really do tease me mercilessly, Rumple. We aren't school children. And there are more enjoyable ways to spend our days."

"Yes," he agrees with a quivery whisper, "there are..."and she can scarcely believe it when she feels him brush his lips against her shoulder. _He wants her?_

She tightens her grip on his hands, wishing him to understand she welcomes this tenderness, hoping that his bravery will not falter. Her heart is very nearly pounding out of her chest. "Yes," she echoes.

"Don't turn around, love," he begs, before removing his hands from the wheel to hitch up her skirts, his long fingernails grazing along her thighs. Belle exhales a shuddering sigh.

"Please, Belle, ask me to stop," he pleads, his fingers pausing at the edge of her modest cotton undergarments. "Don't stop," she whispers. Rumplestiltskin moans, and his hand travels down, down between her legs, the first to ever touch her there. Belle is damp and hot, and she whimpers when his fingers tangle in her dark, wet curls, pressing his palm against the little mound that will bring her pleasure and gently beginning to rock his hand back and forth against her.

Her head falls back against his shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut, not understanding the ache and building pressure, feeling like she will surely die. Inexperienced and uninhibited, she moans and pants against his ear, her hips moving in an needy, involuntary rhythm.

Rumplestiltskin slips his other hand underneath her skirts and, using two fingers, spreads open her outer lips so that he may caress the inner folds and the sweet, sensitive spot below her opening. Belle keens, bucking up, and he slips a finger inside of her, moving his thumb over the little nub of nerves that begs his attention, giving her the steady, quickening rhythm she needs.

"Rumple...Rumple...I'm..." She's afraid of this unknown that he is urging toward with his slick, hot hands, so he pants out: "Let go...let go for me, love...let yourself come for me, love."

And she does, screaming, the jerky movements of her firm little backside bringing him off as well, causing him to bite into her shoulder.

"Oh, Belle," he says, when at last he can think again, "Oh, sweetheart."

"That was..." she begins, then stops, contemplating. "Rumple, was that magic?"

He laughs a shaky laugh and kisses her shoulder where he bit her. "Yes, love."


End file.
